


Would You Still Like To Have Diner?

by Illusinia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illusinia/pseuds/Illusinia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene is taking a night to grieve, but someone simply will not leave her alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Would You Still Like To Have Diner?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Natasharomanoff2014](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natasharomanoff2014/gifts).



> So, this originally was just a random bit to get a bit of a handle on writing Irene and Sherlock so I could complete a request for Natasharomanoff2013. However, I decided to start here in a sense and build forward to do her fic. Hence, posting this. Hopefully you all enjoy and please, I have never written anything for any Sherlock fandom before (I'm far too nervous about my inability to properly portray, well, anyone from this particular character set). However, I am giving it my best shot so please let me know what you think.
> 
> Thank you and enjoy.

It was all over the papers: the great Sherlock Holmes, a fraud. A fake. Suicidal. Dead.

 

Not that she was looking. She'd just happen to have seen it while pursuing the news from her native country. America is such a dull country news wise. Of course, returning to England is strictly out of the question, at least for the time being. He'd made that very clear, Sherlock had.

 

And now, the very brilliant genius who had saved her life is dead. The man who had outsmarted her (and he _had_ outsmarted her, regardless of how he'd done it), Irene Adler. The Dominatrix who had very nearly brought England to it's knees.

 

The first three quarters of what the papers said is rubbish and she has no doubts about this. She'd gotten into Sherlock Holmes' head; he's somewhat gullible when faced with the proper incentives and a pretty face, but he's a brilliant man all the same. Was, he was a brilliant man.

 

When the article had first appeared on her computer (a rather clunky device she found unappealing by comparison to her phone but desperate times called for desperate measures), she'd thought it a joke. And if she'd gone to the dungeon that night and whipped a few sniveling wall street executives a touch harder than necessary, they hadn't complained and she hadn't noticed. Breaking others down is what she does, will always find joy and pride in doing. Besides, she needs something to get her out of trouble.

 

It hadn't been until she'd gotten home that the shock had broken and an unexpected grief had settled in. A heavy weight that seemed to hang from her heart in a most uncomfortable way. Sherlock Holmes, perhaps the most brilliant man she has ever met, perhaps the one man she could say she might have some form of affection for, is dead. Gone. And to have him declared a fraud....it's sickening.

 

Which is how, two weeks later, she came to find herself curled up on a rather tattered chair in her robe in the mediocre apartment she is temporarily renting in New York, not far from her place of work, until she determines what it is she wants to do next. Which is _not_ going to be to follow the impulse to flee back to England. She won't allow it; no good can come from such an exercise and despite Sherlock's insistence otherwise she does rule her decisions largely with her head and not her heart.

 

It is in that tattered chair that she has been sitting for the last few hours, simply staring at her computer and that rather lovely image of Sherlock in his funny hat, and forcing herself not to cry. Well, not to cry loudly. There is no stopping the few tears which have escaped her eyes, though she isn't sure why. She'd used him. He'd turned her into the police. Why is this man's death such a heavy weight on her? Alright, well, that isn't really a question she needs to ask. Loath as she is to admit it, Sherlock had been right. Sentiment had lead her to rule the game more with her heart than her head. And she is self-conscious enough to know that is why his death is weighing so heavily on her.

 

The ping of her cellphone registers somewhere in her mind, but she can't bring herself to move to answer it. It isn't that she's incapable of movement, it's simply that she doesn't want to. It's the same reason she called in sick to work that night: despite how cathartic is it to beat a man senseless or hang him from the ceiling, she's simply not up to the task at the moment. Not that she couldn't beat a man silly, but rather that she might harm him in the process. Being a dominatrix is all about control, namely her maintaining it so her client might relinquish it for a bit in a safe environment. If she's emotional, then she is not in control and that could pose a danger to others. Which would tarnish her professional reputation and, well, she can't have that can she?

 

Several more pings echo from the device, all of which she ignores. Likely clients attempting to persuade her to come into work. Or perhaps some of the younger men she works with who have developed minor crushes. Regardless, she could care less. It isn't of interest to her anymore.

 

Eventually the pings stop, returning silence to her apartment. It's a blessing to her mind, which seems incapable of deciding what it should be thinking. Or anything else for that matter. The way it's racing about, she's not certain what it is she should be doing at the moment. Is there a faster way to dispel grief? If so, she'd rather like to know if only to dismiss this damnable weight that won't seem to lift even two weeks following his death.

 

Knocks come from her door, several of them, but no voice rises to explain who her visitor is. So she ignores it. Likely it's one of the other dominatrix's from the dungeon come to check on her. She'd claimed sickness and, well she should answer, again she finds herself unwilling to move. This immobility is really rather ridiculous, but she gives in all the same. She's been constantly pushing herself forward in the hopes the papers would redact their previous statements, but after two weeks nothing has changed. She can take a night to grieve; it isn't a crime to feel sadness at the loss of a- a what? Friend? Associate? Enemy? Near lover? Could he be a lover? Regardless, she knew Sherlock well, feeling grief at his passing isn't unexpected and taking a night to mourn is acceptable. Anyone would do it. At least, that's what she tells herself.

 

Eventually, much like the pings, the knocks cease as well and she just registers the sound of a man's shoes retreating down the hallway. Likely her neighbor than, probably with another poor attempt to woo her. Somehow, she find's it's harder to accept the gifts and advances of men outside the dungeon than it previously might have been. Certainly she's flirted a bit with the poor sap, even slept with him one night when she was feeling particularly bored, but he offers her no challenge. There is nothing of interest about him, at least not to her. She's not even spoken to the man in the last two weeks, which explains the visit. He's probably checking to ensure she's alright. Why do people feel the need to do that? Her co-workers, her clients, her neighbors: can't they simply, for one night, leave her alone? She's said she's sick, so let her have her day to be sick.

 

Silence descends on her apartment again, wrapping her back in a blanket of her own grief and self-awareness. Idly, she wonders if this is how Sherlock felt when he thought her dead. If her “death” had any impact on him at all. Certainly she'd gotten a rise out of him many times, as she was so skilled at doing, but she'd never allowed herself to wonder if he'd felt true grief and sorrow at her death. Now, feeling as she does, she hopes he hadn't. That John had completely misread his flat-mate's reaction. Because John had implied that Sherlock felt grief and that was the last thing she wished to invoke on the man. Especially if it's anything like the grief she feels now.

 

A creek from her bedroom cuts through the room, quiet though it is, pulling her mind away from everything. All of the grief, pain, shock, and sadness seem to disappear in that moment, overwritten by rage. Really? Someone would dare to break into her apartment? Why can't everyone simply leave her alone!

 

Slipping her gun from it's place beneath her chair (it's New York, a woman would have to be mad not to keep some form of protection on her, even The Woman), she levels it towards the door to her bedroom and waits for her guest to make an appearance. There's another sound from the room, followed by a crash and quietly muttered curse which only tells her that her visitor is British, male, and likely just tripped on the pair of stiletto heels she'd left carelessly in the middle of her room the previous night. From the sound of the crash, she'd also presume he's rather tall. More muttering and curses come from the room, which trail off a bit for a moment and she can hear the sound of rustling fabric. Hm, so he's found her clothing as well it seems. Entertaining.

 

Keeping her patience about her, she simply sits and waits for her visitor to appear. She knows he will, it's inevitable. Which is why when the door begins to creak open, she simply smirks a little. Predictable.

 

What she isn't expecting is the familiar shape that fills the door. What she doesn't predict is the light bouncing off sharp, high cheek bones or the mass of curly hair which currently fills her doorway in that lanky way of his. What she never expected to see again are the piercing blue eyes which meet hers and don't even take a second glance at the gun in her hands.

 

“Sherlock.” Her words are quiet, shocked, and for a moment she wonders if she isn't hallucinating due to grief. She's heard of it happening; it's apparently more common than one might expect.

 

But the voice that comes from the man's mouth, the hint of nerves which is quickly covered by a self-assured confidence, can belong to no other. “You sound surprised, Miss Adler. It was you who suggested I visit.”

 

“I didn't mean through my window.” It is him then, he is alive. Apparently, the papers really are good for little more than kindling. Thank God.

 

“I wouldn't have had to climb through your window if you'd simply answered your phone or your door.” His words are calm, collected, and just a touch annoyed as he turns to her desk, picking up the previously intrusive device and offering it to her. “You're not a difficult woman to find, but apparently bloody hard to get a hold of.”

 

“How did you even know I would be home?” She's lowered the gun by now, tucked it back into it's hiding place, but not found she's capable of moving from her chair except to take her phone. All the same, it lets her pretend to maintain a casual air, which is the only upper hand she can hope to have in this situation. Glancing at the device, her brow furrows a bit, the number listed on the messages recently sent is... “This is my old number.”

 

“Sent from your old phone,” admits Sherlock, shifting a bit as if he's uncomfortable with the fact. That he even still has her old phone sends a strange thrill through her. It had been left on her 'body' when he assisted her in escaping Pakistan, which means he had to have stolen it somehow to have it. “I was forced to leave mine on my body, so I had an associate reactive yours.” He shrugs a bit, glancing around the apartment. Not that there's much in her apartment to begin with and certainly nothing of interest to him. “I stopped by your work. Less elegant of a place than I would have assumed, knowing you.”

 

“I have to rebuild my reputation.” It's the only response she can think of to give, as much of a lie as it is. She could certainly find work in a far more discreet dungeon, but there's also the increased chance her clients may look for a more intimate form of release as well, which she finds herself unwilling to give at the moment. Another thing she refuses to give much thought to.

 

She knows he's aware of her lie. There's a slight tick at the corner of his mouth which gives it away. “You would know, I suppose.”

 

That he doesn't take the opportunity to jump on her lie is a surprise. But before she can say as much, ask why he doesn't call her out on something he so clearly knows is a fib, his eyes return to her own. Those blue eyes of his nearly pin her in place, though there's a bit of something else hovering about him. Nerves perhaps? The sound of him clearing his throat confirms that. Then he holds out his hand to her, the act of a gentleman that he isn't. “So, I was wondering, seeing as I am not dead and neither are you despite the world's misinformed opinion, would you still like to have dinner?”

 

For the first time in two weeks, perhaps in her life, Irene truly smiles.


End file.
